


will you meet me again where the world ends?

by WatanabeMaya



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Airport Hugs, Alternate Beach Scene, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dreams, Dreamscapes, End of the World, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, M/M, What Was I Thinking?, Yuuri is the greatest riddle Viktor's mind has yet to solve, i churned this out in 2.5 days guys, nonsensical angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 18:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8928160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatanabeMaya/pseuds/WatanabeMaya
Summary: it's the end of the world as we know it,and i long to spend the last of my days with you.
\\
Viktuuri. Oneshot. Post-canon AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello so i've fallen victim to becoming yoi trash and reached that point (or should i say, pinnacle) in my life where i felt the /need/ to contribute a viktuuri fic for the fandom. warning though, since it's been so long i must apologize in advance for it seems as though i've forgotten how to write hahahuhu.
> 
> this was heavily inspired by Yuuri's infamous "let's end this" line from ep 11, and thus is set in a post-canon AU-ish timeline, where Viktor has somewhat grown to suppress his memories of all things Yuuri-related in order to cope with the pain of their separation. it is very very very loosely based on past events in canon, though i did tweak some details here and there. special shoutout, many thanks, and much love to one of my good friends who agreed to help me out by beta-ing this since my usual beta was away on break.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Yuri!!! on Ice.

_it's the end of the world as we know it,_

_and i long to spend the last of my days with you_

.

Viktor Nikiforov is a man of many dreams. He dreams of things to come and things that go, of things he wonders when he'll ever truly come to understand, or to know.

"What are you doing?" Yuri asks and snaps him out of his daze. The younger male waves his arms frantically in the air to call Viktor's attention, before giving up midway and letting his hands fall limply to his sides.

"Yakov's gonna be here any minute, and if we aren't warmed up by then, he'll kill us." Viktor finishes tying his laces together at the bench and lets his gaze rise to meet the blond's.

"He's with Lilia, isn't he?" he replies, and looks pleased with himself as the younger boy gives him a dull nod. "Then we can take our time. He'll most likely be a while."

"Do what you want," Yuri spits out the response as he lingers by the edge of the skating rink, stretching his legs before he makes his way towards the center. Viktor soon follows suit, skating his way through a flawless toe loop and landing softly on the ice.

(The gold on his ring finger poses to him a question; the greatest mystery his mind could never fully solve.)

He raises a fist to the glass ceiling, splays his hand open with his palm held out against the sky. The sun shines its rays, light peeking through his fingertips. He strikes a pose, the prelude to a performance, and brings to mind memories of an old routine. _Storge._

(It's at the end of the world that he finally finds his answer.)

.

Viktor finds himself at the airport moments later, eyes scanning the crowd as a sea of people filters by. Another plane makes its landing, the announcement voiced by a speaker over the intercom. He doesn't know what he's doing, actually; doesn't know what he's looking for.

Makkachin beats him to the chase anyway, running up to the glass barriers and wagging his tail in delight as a Japanese man alights and makes his way past the entry gate. The stranger is clad in a blue coat and large spectacles, a white mask concealing half his face.

His eyes are honey.

The stranger meets his stare. They lock their gazes onto one another, and Viktor rises from his seat almost abruptly. He is running before his mind can register what is happening. The man pulls his mask down, revealing the rest of his features, as Viktor continues to dash towards the entrance before his legs can give way.

He reaches the aperture, the Russian's vision blurring only slightly as he waits for the man to step inside. His lips are stretched taut, pursed paper-thin, if only to keep himself from crying. His chest tightens with a sudden sense of longing, for reasons he cannot fully fathom.

Then Viktor opens his arms, and the boy meets him halfway.

"I'm sorry," the brunet whispers, "have you been waiting long?"

"No," Viktor mumbles, hand in his grasp, and pecks a butterfly kiss. There's the sound of panting breaths, heavy and desperate for air. Viktor pulls the stranger closer, hugs him against his chest and buries his face in the other's hair. He takes in the scent of shampoo, lavender redolence lingering between tresses of galaxy black. "Not at all, darling. Not at all."

.

When he comes to his senses, there's the sound of church bells and a song of the angels, voices of a choir lilting a euphoric cadence in the background. Barcelona looks no less stunning basked in the faint rays of dawn, though Viktor flinches at the feeling of a hand grasping his own, peeling his gloves off and cradling it gently by the wrist.

"Thank you for everything up until now," a voice says, and Viktor looks up to the sight of brown eyes and hair the colour of the night sky. Glasses encase the other's gaze, strands of rich black falling softly against the thickly-wired rims. Viktor blinks, and the other takes this as his cue to continue.

"I'm sorry I couldn't think of something better, but–"

There's the coldness of metal meeting the warmth of his skin, and Viktor feels his eyes grow wide as the stranger slips the band smoothly past his fingers. Eyes still on the ring, he asks:

"We've met before, haven't we?"

"Many, many dreams ago – yes," the stranger replies, "in another time, another place..."

He hands Viktor another band of shimmering gold, offers his hand for the taking. Viktor swallows hard, holds the man's hand and nestles it softly in his palm. He slips the ring less deftly onto the other's fingers, shaking slightly as he struggles to bite back his words. But they come out of him anyway, spilling out his lips and tumbling out of control.

"And d-did…did you love me then?"

His voice is soft and tinny and it comes out more like a choked sob or something short of a desperate plea than it does anything else. At this, amber eyes crinkle with a mien the Russian can only define as fond.

"Perhaps I did," the other answers, the ghost of a smile dancing on his lips. "Once...twice..a thousand times over."

.

"Where to next?" he asks. He spots Makkachin out of the corner of his eye, hiding by the pillars and head resting on its paws. _So that's where you were, you silly dog,_ Viktor thinks, though he doesn't motion his pet to come any closer. Instead, he wraps his arm around the other, finding warmth in his touch, and neither of them ever bother to pull away.

"Let's go to the ocean," the man mumbles, a quiet whisper against his sleeve. Viktor doesn't miss the faint flush dusting his cheeks. "There is something I'd like to show you."

"Alright then," Viktor agrees. "Let's."

.

There's just something to be said about the sun and the sea.

Granted, there isn't much of the sun to begin with in this scenario. There's only the vast expanse of the waters — waves lapping the shoreline, the gentle hum of boat engines in the far off dock. The sight reminds Viktor of St. Petersburg, with seagulls flapping overhead as the tides roar in their wake.

Together they sit, side by side, knees huddled close to their chests. The sky above them is painted a distant grey.

"Why do we have to end it like this?" he mouths softly, tears fraying along the edge of his words.

"But we don't have to," the other answers, black hair falling onto his face and shielding his gaze. Viktor cannot decipher his expression, but the danger of emotion hangs loosely in his tone and Viktor clings onto it with as much force as a dying man to his lifeline. "We don't have to put an end to this — whatever this is."

"What do you mea–"

"Well," the man admits, "we will end, as all things do. We will end and this will end, but it will also begin. This world will be born anew, and so will all of those within it. But this is not the first time, nor is it the last. A race of time, the circle of life...it goes by many names. It is a cycle, of energy bound and looped to an eternity."

"And this is the way you want to spend such an eternity?" Viktor asks, a brow cocked up in askance.

"No one would want to spend all that time alone, don't you think?" the other shrugs, turning to face him. "All I'd really want is for someone to stay by my side."

"And yet you chose me," Viktor whispers, tossing the question towards the mercy of the sea.

"So I did, didn't I?" The stranger laughs, a tender melody reverberating through his lungs and echoing through the air. His lashes flutter and rest atop his cheeks as he continues, voice a gentle lilt while he speaks. "But to be honest, I'd choose you again if I could...in every life, and in every time."

He hums, voice trailing off as he sinks deeper in thought.

"When I open up, you meet me where I am." A hand rests atop his own, laces their fingers together. The older man lets the touch sink into his skin as their palms press warmly against the Hasetsu sand. The no-longer-stranger adds, "So wait for me, Viktor, and meet me again at the world's end."

Viktor doesn't say anything in response; just holds onto the other's touch and curls in on himself tighter. Together they watch as the sky is enveloped by the darkness, and the world fades as quickly as the flicker of candlelight.

.

When Viktor wakes, it is to the white of hospital walls and the buzz of fluorescent lights. The scent of antiseptic lingers, an aroma that ebbs and flows with as much permanence as the smell of the sea at the harbor, carried by the gales of a worn down air conditioner.

"Viktor, you idiot!" a voice cries out, loud enough to elicit from him a pained wince, though he recognizes the tinge of relief no matter how hard its owner tries to conceal it.

"Yuri?" Viktor mutters. "What happened?"

"You did a quadruple flip but landed the wrong way, then rammed your head against the ice like the bullheaded idiot you are. Yakov had to call us an ambulance to get you checked out. He was worried you wound up with a concussion...and you did." The younger boy sighs, "Geez. This is what you get for doing jumps right away without warming up properly, stupid."

Viktor runs a hand through his grey hair, bemused, and blinks only idly at the young blond in response.

"Doctors said you should stay here for a while," Yuri tells him as he rises from his seat. "They want to do some tests on you or something."

"How long is 'a while'?"

"Uh, two days? One week? The hell would I know," the younger boy grumbles. "I'm not a doctor. Ask them yourself. Better yet, just focus on getting well and leaving as soon as possible."

"I see," Viktor replies. His gaze falls to the sheets on his bed, fingers bunching the fabric on his lap; gold stark against the pallid white of the cloth.

(It is only later in the night, long after Yuri and Yakov have bid him their goodbyes and Viktor is left alone in the solace of his thoughts, that he gasps with the belated realization he's forgotten to ask the man for his name.)

.

A week later finds itself bathed by the sunlight. Specks of auburn and golden rod rain down in an array of crisp leaves; fallen showers of bronze litter the streets, a calm contrast to the grey of the pavement. Fronds hang loosely on the edges of branches, flitting with the breeze of a light zephyr. It is autumn, and the world sings a still song in verses of sentiment and melodies of a daydream.

Viktor is strolling through the landscape with Makkachin in tow and a leash on hand – the poodle out for a walk in the heart of the plaza within the big Mikan – when he sees it.

Amidst the green of the willow and the blues of the sky, cerulean eyes fall onto the familiar shade of galaxy black. Its color peeks through the foliage at the interstice, where the winds meet and the light gathers.

This shouldn't be anything new, though. Viktor is in Japan right now; brunettes here are a dime a dozen. It could be anyone. But despite this fact and regardless of his clawing uncertainty, his feet are already making their way towards the figure.

The leash falls from his hands, and Makkachin cocks his head to the side in a questioning stance to his keeper. As his owner speeds away, the dog patiently follows after him.

It's a mild run, or a quick jog at best, but his pace slows as he makes his way towards the rink. It shouldn't take him too long, to be honest – the distance between them being no more than a single kilometer – but it feels as though he's been in the hospital for far too long, body worn and weary and fallen too out of shape.

Then his eyes catch sight of the stranger on the ice. The figure makes music solely by means of dance, crafting a tale of eros and innocence. Viktor lets out a low whistle, watching the rest of the story unfold with hands that speak of a climax and legs that mark their epilogue.

The man skates a mesmerizing triple axel, blades crafting their ensign on the ice before he leaps into the air and lands an overturned quadruple Salchow. The performance is flawed, albeit still beautiful, and Viktor finds himself unable to pull his eyes away.

Now, he doesn't know if it's the sound of his labored breathing, or of the pavement lapping kisses against the soles of his feet as he inches closer, but something warrants the stranger's attention enough to turn his head towards his direction. Viktor worries if he's overstepped his boundaries, isn't sure if his presence here is something a stranger would willingly accept, and he holds in a breath just two steps short of making his entrance.

Then he sees those eyes – brown as hazel, warm as home – and Viktor _knows._

" _You_ ," he breathes out.

Viktor takes one hesitant step forward, then another. The stranger flashes him a smile, small and tired yet dazzling all the same. Light bounces off a band on the other's hand, a glimmer of gold peeking out from the fabric of worn-out gloves. Viktor feels his cheeks bloom an ephemeral red, and he freezes. Falters.

The man skates himself closer to take Viktor's hand and cradle it in his palms. He raises it to his lips and rests it against his face in a gentle caress. He leans into the touch; the act is calming, familiar.

"Yes, Viktor," Yuuri answers. " _Me_."

.

(And so it begins, the story of him and he.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for taking the time to read this & please do leave a review, as i'd love to hear from you guys :)
> 
> ((wooooo less than 24 hours left 'til the next ep of YoI aAAaAaaAAAhhHhHhHH the hype is real))


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